


We can be heroes (just for one day)

by isa_belle



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:38:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle
Summary: “There’s supposed to be heroes. There’s talks of battles and men and women from the sky that can lift buildings and shoot lightning from their fingertips. That stand against the wicked and vile and defend their own until their dying breaths.But they’re merely stories. Too far away to have meaning to me.”or, the aftermath of the snap from somewhere where there are no Avengers.





	We can be heroes (just for one day)

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely should be writing stuff for Taking hits but I suck so I’m not. Anyway, the title is from the song Heroes by David Bowie.

There’s supposed to be heroes. There’s talks of battles and men and women from the sky that can lift buildings and shoot lightning from their fingertips. That stand against the wicked and vile and defend their own until their dying breaths. When they’re knocked down they get up again and again and again until all that’s left is dust. The hope they carry on their backs lifts spirits throughout the galaxy. But they’re merely stories. Legends of the mighty spread through hushed whispers in the streets. Too far away to have meaning to me. They fight their wars with power and strength and we fight ours with clenched fists and crippling fear. They fight for their people and we fight for ours. That’s how it’s always been. 

_Until they lose._

I’m sure that there’s villains. They’re as real as the ashes that litter our streets and the cries that echo from almost-empty houses. They are war and death and suffering and the bringers of those evils. They are the screams of mothers and fathers who’s children vanished in the blink of an eye, missing, the fear in the eyes of those left to wonder,  who’s next? How long before we all crumble too?  There’s talks of monsters, tall and merciless, wielding swords and gauntlets studded with stones from every corner of the universe. We do not blame the heroes. We only hope that they will finally come. So we wait, thinking,  surely this will be it, they will come, they will save us, they will  avenge  us _._ And we wait and wait. 

There’s months of waiting. Months of begging and begging the sky to send down someone, _anyone_ to save us from the raging fire that burned and burned at our skin until we turned to ash.Months of wallowing in pain and paranoia, of burning anxiety, crippling us, of shaking hands and nervous glances, of sadness so deep people can’t get out of bed. Months of hell, we wait. 

_We do not blame the heroes._

But the wonder-filled whispers on the streets turn bitter. The hope dwindles out. Praise no longer pours from the mouths of wide eyed children, and they’re eyes are no longer wide. Innocence is stripped away and we all grow up a little faster. We stop waiting for the heroes to come. We turn our gaze from the skies to the ground and we try to fix the mess on our own. We sweep the streets, we have the ceremonies and funerals and vigils. We rebuild buildings, we try to rebuild lives. We pray to whatever gods are out there for mercy. We help the children who are left alone, we bandage wounds and hand out food on the corners. And it’s hard. It’s hard to help ourselves because that means facing it all and that makes it real. It was easy to wait around for help and deny the permanence of the tragedy that rattled the universe. But staring that loss in the face? 

We pick up the pieces. But when wego to put them back, we realize that they don’t quite fit together anymore. And when it’s as fixed as it will ever be, we wash our hands but they stay a little dirty.And at night I still see people’s eyes locked on the stars, full of hope and something else. I try to ignore them. They can have their hope, I don’t want it. 

There’s no heroes here. No one with a flowing cape to zoom in and fix the mess of a world that we all live in. And I’m okay with that. There will always be people who believe in legend. Who hope for a savior, with fists of flames, or raging storms in their eyes. 

I do not blame the heroes. I do not hate the heroes. I do not care if they come. I do not think that they will. So when I glance up, just for a second, late at night and see a star that seems to be falling, I hesitate for a moment. I watch it get closer and closer until I can see where it’s going. 

Then I shoot up and run to catch it. I throw out my arms, swinging the door open and I jump from foot to foot, my bare feet scratching against cool pavement. My steps are added silence to the already empty street. All I can hear is my heart beat, quick and booming in my chest and I feel something close to hope nestled next to it. I listen to the steady thump in my ears, tune everything else out, and crush it. 

As soon as I feel grass under my toes I stop and my chin tilts towards the sky, eyes searching the atmosphere for the star. I find it, or,  _her_ . I see a woman, falling—no, _flying_ towards the ground with a smirk on her face. My jaw falls open slightly. 

She looks like she’s sewn from stars, fabric stitched and folded and hemmed to make blonde hair and bright skin. Eyes that are just sockets of light, and hair that floats. She’s white hot, like fire, as she gets closer a wind blows me back a few steps and I fall. When she lands gently on the ground she exhales and the glow around her disappears, and her hair falls to her shoulders. Warmth lingers in the air. 

She looks around and her eyes land on me. She smiles a little. “Hello.”  She says simply, as if she didn’t just fall from the sky. She offers me a hand and I take it, standing up quickly then pulling away. Her skin is too hot. I don’t bother with niceties. As the smell of burnt grass and smoke fills my nose, I ball my fists and open my mouth. My voice doesn’t shake as I ask, “Who are you?”

She smiles a very kind smile. It’s a sharp contrast to the smirk she wore as she flew. 

“I’m Carol Danvers.” She says, a little glint in her blue eyes, “I’m here to help.”

_And for once,_ _I let myself hope._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you see any reason for me to take it down or if you want to validate me :)


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